


Foiling Nightmares

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Archangels, Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, M/M, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Suggestive Themes, Wings, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Aziraphale decides to try an ancient human experience that some people would say he's never given much of a chance: sleep. He isn't quite prepared to have a nightmare about certain recent apocalyptic events, but fortunately, he also won't have to deal with it alone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 239





	Foiling Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Prinx (FangsScalesSkin here on AO3) for the beta work, and to Lex (argentconflagration) for peeking at it even earlier and reassuring me that it was worthwhile.

Six thousand years - over two million days - and this is probably his best day in existence. Aziraphale adjusts his bow tie in eager preparation as he and Crowley walk the vast, echoing halls of Heaven. As soon as they finish this discussion with the Archangels, they can go back and save Earth, and everything will be better than it ever has before.

Of course, as he’s told, no demon has ever Risen before. He’s not sure how the process would work, or if anything would change for Crowley except some ceremonial non— er, some ceremonial process by the Archangels.

Uriel had been the hardest to convince. They had made exactly the same arguments Crowley had made - that demons are unforgivable, that to try and redeem one would be to defeat the original purpose in casting them out. But Gabriel’s enthusiasm and the assurance that this _must_ also be the Lord’s work had won them over in the end.

Michael had been unexpectedly enthusiastic. It was rather surprising, as Michael did lead the original War in Heaven. But Aziraphale had been able to convince them without much trouble by framing Crowley’s exile and return as all part of the Great Plan, not as an error in Michael’s judgement. (Of course, it didn't matter exactly why Crowley was able to come back. Just that he would be here. And he'd be safe. But the Archangels wouldn't understand.)

Sandalphon...it was better not to linger on Sandalphon. Sandalphon hadn’t been disagreeable, had been rather easy to convince, following Gabriel’s lead on the whole thing, but it had bared its teeth in this nasty grin that reminded Aziraphale of crucified corpses and salt pillars.

After the initial explanation (“I believe that in the course of our enmity, well, the demon Crowley has asked— he would like to— I believe he may be interested in being _redeemed_ , you see, it really is quite remarkable”), Gabriel had seemed rather jovial about the possibility, all things considered.

And this led them here, to the great white expanse of Heaven, all the great monuments of the world visible from the massive windows. Crowley trails uncharacteristically behind, looking nervous; every now and then, Aziraphale turns back to give him a reassuring smile. Each time, Crowley nods. Aziraphale can’t quite place the expression on his face, but oh, well - he can’t be blamed for being nervous.

At last, they reach the end of Heaven’s hall, the door they were asked to enter for the meeting with the Archangels. Aziraphale smiles at Crowley once again, then holds the door open so he can go in and begin his new life.

Aziraphale enters behind Crowley, and…

It’s an all-white room. Oppressively bright, some would say. The Archangels are all there, standing around a bathtub, inside of which immaculate clear water has already been poured. They’ve left room in front of the tub, on the side closest to the door.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley is unnervingly still, glasses off, full-snake eyes glancing back and forth at the Archangels.

“This is the Rising Ceremony,” Sandalphon oozes.

“It’s a very important custom,” Uriel adds.

That’s odd. They’d said this had never happened before...

“Crowley must get in the tub before he can be fully integrated into Heaven,” says Gabriel.

Michael is standing by, silent, with a crystal-clear pitcher Aziraphale recognizes.

“I don’t—” he stutters. “I don’t know if this…”

“Don’t you worry a bit,” Gabriel says. “If Crowley is ready to come back to Heaven, the holy water won’t hurt him at all!”

Crowley turns to give Aziraphale a look of pure terror.

“You did say he was ready,” Michael says. “You said he changed.”

Uriel nods. “You said it must have been a miracle.”

“Well, but this isn’t necessary,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley is here. He’s already at your mercy.”

“These are the rules,” Gabriel says.

The Archangels stand there, foreboding and immovable. It’s the sparkle in Sandalphon’s eye that finally jolts Aziraphale into grabbing Crowley’s wrist.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to follow through with this after all,” he says. “Perhaps Crowley should—”

“Oh, he’s not leaving,” Michael says, stepping forward with the infinite pitcher. Sandalphon is already advancing; Aziraphale tries to open the door behind the two of them, but it’s locked.

For the first time, while Aziraphale is fiddling with the doorknob, Crowley speaks. “Angel, please.” He tries to take over, but the door doesn’t yield for him, either.

Aziraphale turns to the Archangels. “Hold on,” he says. “I’m quite sure if we just talk, you can clarify that Crowley is planning to be loyal to Heaven, you understand, and certainly doesn’t need to take any risks to prove it.”

“You know as well as I do that’s not good enough,” Gabriel says with a scorching smile. The Archangels surround the two of them.

* * *

  


Aziraphale is barely conscious again before he stumbles through the dark, still in sleepwear, to the phone. It isn’t necessary to see the dial to make the call. As an afterthought, he flicks on the desk lamp for a small bit of light.

“Everything alright?” Crowley asks the instant he picks up.

Oh, dear. He hasn’t thought this far ahead.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says, impatient, because nothing is wrong. Obviously. “What about you?”

“Wha— Me? I’m not the one who called at 3 AM,” Crowley says. He’s tetchy, which means he’s nervous.

“Well. I just wanted to make sure!”

“Um.” There’s a moment of palpable confusion from the other side of the line. Aziraphale has to admit he doesn’t blame him. “Is something wrong? Weren’t you saying you were going to try sleeping tonight?”

“Oh, I did! It was fine, but I’m done now!” says Aziraphale.

“You’re...done,” Crowley echoes.

“Yes. And now, I really should be going.”

“Wait, hang on—”

“I’m glad everything is well, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, overplaying the cheer a little before he hangs up.

There’s an eerie silence in the bookshop now, the conversation still ringing in his ears. Outside, a messy mix of snowy slush is coming down at an alarming rate; he would normally feel protected in here, clad in these warm flannel pyjamas in his dry sanctuary of books in the cold night, but at this moment, he’s feeling only isolation.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. That was - that call was foolish. He shouldn’t have done that. What an absolute bother. He takes out a copy of a favorite novel - it’s one he’s memorized, but it’s still comforting to see the words there on the page - and hunches over it on his desk, trying in vain to concentrate before noticing he’s opened it upside down.

It’s hardly eight minutes later when the Bentley whooshes up through the sleet, its headlights blaring. Thoroughly humiliated but not surprised, Aziraphale pulls the door open.

Crowley is as handsome as always as he jumps from the car. The red of his hair, a dash of heat, stands out even in the streetlights made faint by precipitation, and he grimaces at the weather but does not bother with a miracle to stay dry.

“Nice PJs,” he says, rushing to the bookshop’s front step.

Aziraphale nods, preoccupied. “Ah. Yes. Alright, then. You should come in.” The pyjamas are quite nice, he thinks, delightfully vintage, his favorite tartan, but Crowley might be being sarcastic. And anyway, they’re not the point of any of this.

Crowley stalks in. He peers around and seems to find nothing of particular interest in the dim light except for Aziraphale, who he levels with a piercing gaze through his glasses. He radiates a sort of energy, and if Aziraphale had to put that energy into words, they would be _“I’m not going to relax until you admit the problem.”_

Aziraphale lingers by the door after closing it, feeling profoundly awkward. “Had a bit of a nightmare,” he confesses. “I’m - I’m fine now. Just wanted to talk to you, you know, in the real world, to shake it off.”

Crowley points at his own chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Crowley studies Aziraphale, starts to say something, and pauses for a moment. “Nasty feeling, bad dreams,” he says finally, and slouches toward the old couch in the corner. On it lies the rumpled blanket, betraying Aziraphale’s lack of imagination for sleeping arrangements.

Aziraphale follows without a word, but does not help himself to a seat. He stands and wrings his hands before remembering himself, arbitrarily choosing some books to rearrange on the shelf instead.

“I...should maybe have reminded you,” Crowley adds, frowning at the thought as he takes a seat. “About nightmares. Not sure why I didn’t think of it when I was egging you on earlier.”

Aziraphale shrugs, standing there, not committed to where he wants these books to go, nor particularly caring. He shuffles them from place to place. “I knew about them. We’ve discussed them before. It isn’t your problem.”

“Would it help to talk about it?” Crowley attempts.

Surely he can’t expect Aziraphale to be straightforward about this…?

“It was you who got...hurt,” Aziraphale answers, instead of “no.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, frowning. He pauses, then opens his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Well, as you can see, here I am, doing fine.” He replaces the sympathetic frown with a smile. It’s comforting in a way that only he can manage.

Aziraphale nods. “You _are_.” He hovers next to Crowley.

“Come on, just sit already,” Crowley says, scooting left, leaning casually to the side with one of his own arms sprawled over that of the couch, patting the seat beside himself.

“It wasn’t just _anything_ that harmed you,” Aziraphale continues, voice low, as if sharing something shameful. Maybe it is. He sits next to Crowley, as invited, a little closer than he would have a few months ago. “It was the Archangels. You - I brought you back up there. Said you were - you’d work with us.”

Crowley snorts. “Hah. First clue it was only a dream.” Sometimes he’s too cavalier, but this time, the tone is welcome. It helps shake off the dream. Of course it would be Crowley who could bring him back to Earth.

“It wasn’t bad at that point! You were a bit too quiet, now that I think of it, but everything else seemed fine. They - the Archangels - said they were going to, ah, test you.”

“Eurgh.”

“But what it really was, it was the same as your--” and here Aziraphale rushes through, as it doesn’t bear thinking about “--execution in Hell. Only they said it wouldn’t hurt you if you were really on our-- um, on Heaven’s side.” Aziraphale pauses.

Crowley waits, as easy-going as ever. Aziraphale finds himself seeking his eyes, accustomed to peering through those dark shades; he’s looking for a sign of discontent, but finds only patience written anywhere on Crowley’s face. Aziraphale shakes his head once, trying to pull himself out of it. “Anyhow. We tried to run. Woke up knowing we were both dead, though I didn’t see it happen.”

“Was only a _dream_ ,” Crowley murmurs. “Fake. Like reading a horror story in a book. It’s over now. I know it’s awful, but they pass.”

“I know.” Aziraphale scrunches his eyes shut. He’s read extensively about dreaming, but he can’t say it’s a part of humanity he’s envied. They don’t seem to have much control over where their minds go when they’re asleep. He’d frankly hoped he might be able to shut it off, but if there’s a way to do that, he didn’t find it tonight. “What’s bothering me about it,” Aziraphale continues, voice trembling as he puts his finger on the pulse of something terrible, “is how it almost did really happen. It’s not just any horror story.”

“It didn’t even come close. You’d have never got me up there in reality.”

The lamp on the desk flickers a bit. Aziraphale gets his feelings under control.

“Listen,” Crowley says. “The world was ending, and now it’s not. You said it yourself - everything worked out for the best. Right?”

“Of course, of course.” This is stupid. Aziraphale is being stupid. He should be able to shut all of this off immediately. He shouldn’t have even called Crowley in the middle of the night. “Seeing them in my sleep…” He sighs. “Reopened the wound, I suppose, is all.”

Crowley takes a deep breath and shuffles. It’s the first sign of impatience he’s shown, and it sets Aziraphale on edge, but the line of his brows and the curve of his lips are as soft as ever when he fixes Aziraphale with his gaze.

“What do you want? Like, really want?” Crowley asks. “Find a distraction?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says.

And he’s struck, all at once, with the sensation of having waded far out into the sea and realizing he won’t be able to get back to solid ground before a colossal wave washes over him, because he _does_ know what he wants.

“Angels aren’t supposed to have...this,” he revises.

“What?”

“What I want. Wanting at all, I suppose.”

“Give it a shot,” Crowley says. “We’re not playing by their rules anymore, remember?”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale can’t seem to keep the anxiety off his face or out of his voice. It’s not that Crowley isn’t allowed to see him that way, but the veneer of calm would certainly be a comfort right now. “The thing is. I’m not sure how to describe it exactly.”

Crowley shifts his weight so he’s leaning forward toward Aziraphale. It’s not an impatient gesture. Oh, for -- for Someone’s sake, there’s nothing to be afraid of!

“But it’s you,” Aziraphale finally admits. “I only know that I want _you_ , whatever that means, very badly.”

Crowley is silent for a moment. He removes his glasses and lets them drop the short distance to the rug on the floor.

“Just to clarify,” he says carefully, “are you talking about...in the human way…with, you know...?”

Oh, blast it. Aziraphale can’t seem to make eye contact while he’s talking about this. “I’m familiar with what it _usually_ means. And-- and it’s not…” This is supposed to be two different conversations. “I _do_ contemplate the, ah, the carnal way, sometimes. A little bit like...I’ve had your body in the most literal sense,” he says, not bothering to censor any implications about their successful body-swap, “and I think about that, a-and other things too. But it’s not exactly what I mean here.”

Crowley tilts his head to the side, rather like a puppy with snake eyes. “Uh...hmm. Go on.”

“I would like to, um, be very close to you again and simply rest with you. For a long time,” Aziraphale tries. “Perhaps in our own corporations?” The physicality of it, he thinks, might be different that way, and worth exploring.

Crowley frowns and glances about as if he can observe his thoughts floating in the air. Aziraphale can practically see the gears turning in his head. At last, he raises his eyebrows and seems to return to his senses.

“Angel, that’s _snuggling._ You’re talking about snuggling.”

It is a good thing, he supposes, that at least one of them is capable of being blunt. Aziraphale winces at having his desires laid bare, put so directly, but he does manage to look at Crowley and give him an encouraging half-smile. “I suppose that’s true.”

Crowley swallows. He looks nervous; it’s not what Aziraphale had intended for him to feel. Aziraphale doesn’t question the depth of their bond, but not even all humans show affection physically, not everyone wants to do this sort of activity...

The thought flees along with all other possibilities of rational thought as Crowley moves forward and puts his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, gentle, not resting his full weight. “‘S this fine?” he asks, quiet and gruff.

“Brilliant,” Aziraphale whispers back, and leans over so Crowley can reach him better. Whatever spell was restraining him breaks, finally, and he leaves his slippers behind on the ground so he can curl up for real on the couch. Crowley brings his other arm up for a true embrace while Aziraphale holds him, pressing his face into his neck, inhaling his smokey fireside scent.

For everything he’s held - piles and piles of books, things he’s been asked to carry for missions - Aziraphale’s arms have never been so full. Being able to hold Crowley like this, both of them nestled together on the couch now, causes something, something ancient and primal and blissful, to bloom in Aziraphale’s soul.

There’s a chime and a displacement of space that would seem odd to anyone who wasn’t ethereal, and a pair of black wings are wrapped around the two of them. They’re warm, intensely warm, in a way that isn’t physical.

“And this? How’s this?” Crowley murmurs. He’s got a hand resting in Aziraphale’s hair, and it is delightful to find another new sensation to enjoy after so long here on Earth.

“Splendid. Although…” As much as Aziraphale is experiencing a greater euphoria than he’s felt in all his millennia of existence, there is something a tad unfinished about the situation...

Ah, yes. Aziraphale takes his wings out, too. He casts a hinting look, and Crowley readjusts so he can be embraced by them as well. Aziraphale makes a point of holding him tightly with arms and wings alike, pulling him in as if they’re outside in the slushy mess and only Aziraphale’s heart can shelter Crowley from it.

There. Crowley’s wings may still be overlapping his, cocooning them on the outside, but at least he’s covered by Aziraphale on the inside. And Aziraphale threads his fingers in Crowley’s hair, too, because the reciprocity seems nice, and oh, he’s rather soft, isn’t he?

“You’re here,” Aziraphale says. “You’re here, and...you’re alright?”

“‘Course I am,” Crowley says, voice catching. “What else would I be?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, allowing a familiar pain to surface at last, and presses his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck. “I’m supposed to be a being of belief and I never believed this could happen. I never thought we could be allowed such a thing.”

Crowley caresses Aziraphale on his back, where his wing joins his corporation, and his head. His touch soothes the ache, as if the nightmare had reopened a gash on Aziraphale’s heart and Crowley has the balm for it. (Of course he does. Crowley has always been a salve.) “What thing? This?”

“Yes. Do you know...I’ve frightened myself with how badly I want you.”

“You’ve got me, angel.”

Aziraphale, who realizes he can be oblivious but is definitely not stupid, has known this for a long time. But it wasn’t always the same; he hadn’t known he could save Crowley. He’d only known that if the two of them got this close before, he’d never be able to stop, and they’d be found, and they’d be wrenched apart, and they’d be destroyed. He catches himself trembling with how badly he wants to never, ever let that happen.

“It’s alright, Aziraphale. I’ve got you.”

“The dream. It felt a bit like Heaven reaching down and trying to take you away.”

“They’re not going to,” Crowley says fiercely. “And neither will Hell. We’ll see to it.”

Aziraphale, emboldened by Crowley’s unflinching acceptance, leans up and plants a kiss on his cheek. He waits, eyebrows raised, for a sign of approval. Crowley snorts in that affectionate, indulgent way of his, and returns the favor, this time on Aziraphale’s temple.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. “May I try something else?”

“Please do.”

And their lips meet, a brush of tenderness. Aziraphale isn’t very experienced with this. He tries it a few more times and worries it will get boring, but all seems to be going well, as he draws a pleased hum from Crowley with every kiss. After the constant dance at arm’s length, the pushing-away and the guarded stances, he needs multiple chances with this moment. He suspects Crowley does, too.

There is no equivalent to this behavior in Heaven or Hell; it’s quite remarkable, though, how intense and delicate it can be at the same time, pressing together these soft parts of their bodies that have expressed so much and yet have never been allowed to touch before. The heat of a kiss, Aziraphale discovers, is like the heat of their wings: not entirely physical.

“Lovely,” he murmurs. “But do you mind staying like this for...a while?”

“Not at all,” Crowley says.

“I don’t think I want to sleep.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley says. “Sometimes the part when you’re lazing about in comfortable clothes is more fun, anyway.”

And so they remain, a pair of Earth-touched eternals swathed in their own black and white wings, curling into each other among the comfortable clutter of a dimly-lit bookshop, a heart of warmth on a slushy London night.


End file.
